Session
by Rai Laurel
Summary: What happens to Garry if he's able to escape with Ib? He get's institutionalized, what else? (a Oneshot with a poem "prologue")
1. Prologue?

A/N: Prologue(ish) poem to the one-shot in the next chapter. This particular poem didn't seem to fit with the other poem "categories" I had.

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><p>"They're Everywhere!"<p>

Garry can't remember when  
>but now he is aware<br>of every existing doll.

Did their eyes always follow like that?  
>Is that grin a little wider?<br>He quickens his pace.

Garry can't remember why,  
>he can no longer look in a painting's eyes.<br>His hands twitch.

Are they going to leap from frames?  
>Did that one whisper his name?<br>He runs.

Garry doesn't remember how  
>that statue became smashed open<br>in the yard below

or why those nails  
>have been hammered in your self-portrait.<br>He's sorry so sorry sorry

Garry's friends stratch their heads  
>as he clears his flat of visual art,<br>then sets fire to them in the back.

"They're everywhere," he cries,  
>covering his eyes,<br>refusing to leave the bathroom-

Any wonder I don't visit art galleries?


	2. Session

A/N: I dedicate this to my friend L (no relation to _Deathnote_ as far as I know) in honor of a birthday-to-come. This was inspired by a conversation we had a couple weeks ago. I did say there needed to be more_ Ib_ in the humor category, didn't I? ;)

Edit (11/13/2014): Fixed the grammer and spelling mistakes I could find

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><p>I follow his eyes as they dart.<br>Up.  
>Down.<br>"What are you looking at?"  
>"It's what I'm looking FOR," he answers.<br>"And that is?"  
>He leans in close, crooking a finger so that I know to lean is as well.<br>"Dolls."  
>"Dolls?"<br>"Blue ones with red mouths. They're the most dangerous."  
>"Mr-"<br>"Ssh, don't say my name; it's there on the paper."  
>"What makes blue dolls the scary ones?"<br>"They're alive; they see inside you. Play sick mind games. You know they forced me to tear them open to escape their prison? What does that?"  
>I flick through the case report. Among other things, this guy has been documented with a fear of paintings, statues, yellow roses, blond-haired children, mannequins with heads, mannequins just heads, spit, spiders, and, of course, blue skinned dolls. He vomits at the smell of crayon, cries at the sight of red roses and brunettes, argues with ant colonies, and has recently acquired a taste for pyromania, usually directed at visual art. I've been forbidden from issuing Rorschach tests of any sort, either digital or by paper. I purse my lips before continuing. He seems oddly at ease, except for the eye darting thing.<br>"Do you know why you're here today?"  
>He shrugs.<br>"I'm the fourth in the line of psychiatrists assigned to your case. They say you're incurable. I'm here to prove them otherwise."  
>"Well, I'm here because I know they wouldn't dare come in with so many people watching. They get you when you're alone, y'know."<br>"Ah."  
>"You know, I shouldn't tell Ib that I've committed myself to escape them. She might think I've gone a little overboard. There are no paintings anywhere in this whole building, y'know? I chose this place because of that. Didn't want a repeat of what happened in my apartment building..."<br>"Mr-"  
>"Ssh!"<br>"Sorry. You know that when you first came here, you set fire to everything within a frame."  
>He shifts in his chair.<br>"You even tried to set fire to the doctors' diplomas. Dr. Hutchinson tackled you to the floor before you got his properly alight."  
>"Slight overreaction. Glad there was no permanent damage."<br>"Except for the founder's portraits, and the landscapes depicting the Smoky Mountain countryside, and the still life of the '87 pumpkin harvest."  
>"I'm not sure what you mean."<br>"Those paintings were worth a couple thousand dollars, collectively, as well as holding great sentimental value to staff, patients, and benefactors."  
>"Listen, doctor. May I call you doctor?"<br>"Actually-"  
>"Ssh. One can never know WHEN they are going to get sucked into a separate dimension where the paintings of an artist develop homicidal tendencies. A 'gallery' in which every thing within it is doing its best to make YOU a permanent fixture. That entire place screws with your mind, makes you believe that you aren't even you anymore. We ran, we hid, we did what we could to be able to escape. I'm not about to let anyone get trapped inside another world like that. Have you seen some of your patients, here? Being in that world would destroy them. It almost destroyed me."<br>He pats one of his pockets.  
>"I'm always ready for when that happens again. One can never have too many lighters."<br>"Yes, about that. I'm going to have to ask you to give that up."  
>He stiffenes.<br>"We plan on replacing those paintings you compulsively destroyed. To prevent further accidents"  
>He shakes his head and crosses his arms.<br>"Please, Mr-"  
>"Ssh!"<br>"Sorry, but you must understand, the paintings gave some of our patients comfort. There are other perspectives of this world, not just your own. You need to move beyond these fears. The first step is not to give in to your compulsions. Please, hand me the lighter."  
>"Were you even listening to a thing I was saying before? I've got to be ready. Just because I'm out, doesn't mean I'm safe. If those paintings are replaced, then I will leave."<br>"You already know you can't just 'leave,' this is a mental hospital not a hotel."  
>He smirks.<br>"Replace those paintings, and you'll see how I'll leave. More than just paintings will find their way into the trash."  
>"Is that a threat?"<br>"It is a promise. Those paintings will burn. If it makes you feel comfortable, however, I will leave you my lighter."  
>The alarm on my phone chimes, ending the session.<br>"Shall I report back to my room?"  
>I wave him out, pleased that he had at least given it up all on his own.<p>

That Friday the paintings were replaced. Someone had even painted a picture depicting the various fires "Garry" had started. I had made sure he was sedated while they were hung. I planned on keeping him on the upper floors towards the East side so that I could control his exposure. Except, when I came back the next day, all the paintings were in ashes, and Garry was gone. No one could tell me where he went or how he had managed to get out. And any attempts to find him failed. I glowered at his case folder as I was lectured by my superiors.  
>"Some patients really are incurable, then," my sister said over dinner. "Don't blame yourself."<br>"I swear I'll punch him if I ever see him again."  
>"Don't be unprofessional; isn't he still, technically, your patient?"<br>"Not until he's back within hospital walls."  
>His lighter remains a permanent fixture on my desk. I think it's him laughing at me.<p> 


End file.
